Orchid
by Valerie Phoenixfire
Summary: An A/U one-shot where a section of Palumpolum is also set to be purged.  Jihl Nabaat is the supervising officer in charge, and among the prisoners, she meets her father.  An insight into cruelty.


**A/N: **I hope that it's clear as to who is speaking during those parts. Context is key.

**Orchid**

They were all lined up single-file, and though all were told to stand still, the line still shifted and moved. Some were disabled or simply could not stand for certain lengths of time; they had to squat or sit, aching knees giving in suddenly after they tried their hardest to hold out. Others dared to attempt a quick escape, but they were apprehended before they were even one or two strides outside the line.

Such an act was absurdly foolish. Numerous PSICOM transporters and other aircraft were parked around the perimeter, surrounded further by a variety of smaller vehicles whose headlights were blaring. Those to be exiled, or "purgees" as they were otherwise called, perhaps couldn't be blamed for wanting to return to their homes. Their shock still had not worn off. No one had anticipated that a small district in Palumpolum would also be targeted for the Purge, and the Sanctum had not yet provided an explanation; no word on another hidden vestige, no reports of Pulsian beasts in the vicinity, nothing at all.

An officer appeared at the front of the line and called out each step of the process to numb ears.

It was all routine; as routine as murder could get. They would be inspected, their occupations and recent activity logged. Boarding the train to the Hanging Edge was next, and like a satisfying day at the office, the job would be complete.

Heads down, their gently glowing hoods shielding them from the light rain, they waited.

There she was. A higher officer to replace the one who had addressed the prisoners. Her cerulean pauldrons cast a sickeningly calming glow on her face, illuminating a half-hearted smile. She hated formalities. Heels clicked on a cracked floor, and a gloved hand slid along the side of her recording tablet to switch it on.

First prisoner. Elderly woman, her sight half gone. Tended to a large garden that provided food for a nearby grocery store. The stylus scribbled on the recorder as a shaky voice spoke, and it was finished.

"Thank you. On the train, please."

The officer's voice was like velvet, and the smile never dropped from her face. She watched as two soldiers assisted the old woman onto the nearby train before moving on to the next person.

Second prisoner. Middle-aged man with two sons. Worked at the port, usually moving crates with his bare hands. Imported building materials were his specialty, he added uselessly. The officer looked at his cracked hands and the scar on his cheek.

Are his sons here too, he asked. His wife. The officer listened to his descriptions, glanced once, and shook her head.

"Thank you for your help. Please, on the train."

Third prisoner. A young woman in tears. She looked to the officer as if, perhaps being a woman, she might understand her fear. Maybe she could relate. But the officer turned away to look down at her tablet, waiting patiently for the necessary information.

She had no job because she was attending classes. She offered singing lessons sometimes.

"Thank you. On the train."

Four, five, six. Ten, eleven, twelve. The line seemed to never end, and yet to the officer's relief, no one resisted. Surely this would be over within an hour at the most.

A teenage girl who had wanted to join the Guardian Corps one day.

An older teacher whose voice was as frail as her stature.

A pilot who was still in too much shock to speak.

The officer was briefly questioned by a soldier before she moved on, pausing to let a roll of thunder finish disturbing her protocol.

Thirty six, thirty seven, thirty eight.

A young man who was a very successful businessman and whose company had designed several advertisements for the region.

An older man who was a sanitation worker. Did gardening in his spare time, particularly of orchids.

The officer stopped writing, her eyes glaring at the man's lowered head. Rain water dripped off the edge of his hood, making his face even harder to discern.

"Look at me."

The man complied. His face was wrinkled from work and age, but his green eyes were bright. He wore a soft smile that forced the officer to fight off a shiver. He couldn't be happy. Not now.

Both knew that he didn't need to give her any more information. She merely scribbled; he gazed at her, his smile threatening to wane as his eyes burned of salt. The other prisoners turned their heads, shocked, when this one suddenly spoke without permission.

"Jihl."

The officer didn't have time to react before her guard soldiers thrust their guns towards him, barking things about respect and holding one's tongue in the presence of the lieutenant colonel. But she was calm, and with a wave of her hand, they backed off.

"Yes?"

"Did you follow your dream?"

She stopped writing. The smile had faded earlier from her face due to the multitude of questioning she had to administer, but now she was more than impatient. Her eyes scanned his kind face. When her heart began pounding, she knew she had to end this.

"I should think the answer to that is obvious."

Her words spilled resent like venom. _You always were a fool_. The man's eyes gleamed as he looked her over. He nodded slowly, understanding. Glints of gold from her medal complemented her majestic blue glow, a fierce beacon in this darkness. His voice stayed strong for her.

"That's all I wanted."

The officer wrote down one final note. Her eyes caught his again, jewels separated by years. She lifted a hand to remove a lock of wavy, golden hair from her face.

_You've always done that when you were anxious._

"All right. Thank you. On the train."

Sixty three, sixty four, sixty five.


End file.
